sunday morning

a relative drifts out of the frame, lines of the street. the week beginning is a week ending for me. these are my spaces, but too much space drowns the definition.

i haven’t slept in weeks, i’m so tired of sleeping.

let us apply, that is why we relate. relation leads to application, forge an iron bond and shape a direction. for both people in a relationship of human connection, we must look forward and back–a reservation and an allowance if you will. these must not be read as abstracts, vague as they are; they are both beautiful and concrete. and vague.

trust in this; there is no negativity.

the road outside sings, a bleached summer sky parades its apprehension, it forms an arch above the city, as though placed under tension at its invisible, impossible ends. the street dips away slightly, offering the privilege of green parkland, just for a second, until i look away and then i am back in the room (of course), the room with its natural associations. sounds from next-door, straining to hear stirs of a melody that don’t exist, chasing dreams from outlet to aspect. a radio in another room plays to itself, playing a song i know, necessarily. the radio always does. this is known as the art of conclusion.

a drift of conversation from the street, secured upon a thermal, enters my window. the words are broken and full of static and diesel. i want to hear them, i can’t, speak louder. i must hear you!

indecipherable overhearing! i shall construct what they were saying for myself, for that is what i would have done regardless: you must love the moment, not the person, because people change.

an elderly couple walk across the street. they look up and down the road, before crossing, not saying a word but united in movement and position, not saying a word. i cannot help but link them in my thoughts; they must exist for each other, surely? they are still not saying a word, not even looking at each other.

you must love the moment, not the person, because people change.

they really do.

crash

i wonder if you told me that today you don’t want insanity,
that today you are normal and grounded
and focused and present and healed,

would i stir you and tell you that your skin is softer
when you tremble, that i am quieted when we shake,
that i want you to be off the ground, to fly?

boogiedown productions

it is possible to forget
who is speaking, to whom, and why.

it is evening, cold,
the sound of destruction

short sentences
that remind you in your fingers.

get up, circulate,
the moral hazard of the office

(mutually susceptible to envy)
the word “ghost”

cuts off your anxiety
with a bird call.

1-10

one voice is one tree.
two dogs are one standard.
three roads are one typhoon.
four birds are one gate.
five standing people are one bus stop.
six people in shorts are one game.
seven notes are one chord.
eight trees are one yard.
nine thoughts are one feeling.
ten words are one last conversation.

postage and wastage

dry, caustic eyes like soda. fatigue overbears the bearer, even when the burden is his choice. there is much of interest circulating in the night, much to be conversed about. if only someone were here.

a list, inspired by someone who lives on a continent:

• distant connection that makes heart flutter.
• paying my way.
• vocational antidotes in the form of the form.
• intellect vs anger/sobriety vs passion.
• the need to release meaning from life and let it fall like sandbags.
• sixties lampshades.
• exploded diagrams; i want to draw them for myself, of myself.
• clacketty-clacketty-clack keyboard! wake the whole street won’t you?

what day is it tomorrow?

forecast

an event beyond.
the arid procrastinations of one
who is never in control
will become flooded by
actuality and disappointment.

an apparent night

(originally uploaded by bullish1974.)

i wonder at distances, how i am near everyone but you. the changing life hangs outside the window. the trees, just a step from the road, amuse me the way they stand like people, sometimes loving, sometimes alone.

done that

which is to say
the feeling doesn’t catch
on its own.

yes it does.

emotional autoimmune disorder.

hello! broken
was one of my favorite lines of the year.

it’s not willful
yes it is.

will and anger:
rethinking my absolutism
about prepackaged sauce.